


The Iceman

by peannluaidhe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kidlock, Teencroft, sad mycroft, smol bab sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7089373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peannluaidhe/pseuds/peannluaidhe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ironic, The Iceman afraid of the cold"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Iceman

Mycroft hated winter.

It wasn’t an unusual trait, most people did. The weather was cold, the days were far too short to get any reasonable amount of work done, and the frequent ice patches that gathered around the pavements of London gave Mycroft anxiety, lest he was called to do “legwork”

Even as a child legwork work done and the was never his speciality.  
The pain was still lucid in his mind, the searing heat through his left knee as it came into contact with frozen lake.  
He remembered the look of worry woven on Ford’s face. The ice skating plan gone sour. Mycroft didn’t know what was worse. The pain in his leg, or the excruciating embarrassment as he was carried bridal style by Ford, all the way home.

Through the crisp night air, with Mycroft’s teeth beginning to chatter, both brothers made a silent vow, to never talk about ice skating again.

Of course that became impossible with the arrival of Sherlock.  
An avalanche of curiosity and mad, dark curls, he was constantly falling. Down ditches, over stumps unavoidably on ice. But his fatal falling was in love. With anything and everything.  
He cried when the ice melted. Said the “magic” was gone. And before Mycroft could smack him upside the head, Ford would take Sherlock by the hand and tell him all the wonders of spring. 

Sherlock thought Ford was fun. Mycroft knew he was reckless

“Stop being Mother” Ford would sing song. “I will once you stop trying to get yourself killed” was the usual retort. 

Ford died around Christmas.

Hot blood, warm tears, cold winter air.

It was over in a heartbeat. But the days proceeding lasted years. Christmas Eve went on for decades. The cold clatter of knifes on plates during Christmas dinner. A mass of dark curls moping like a storm cloud.

Mycroft tried playing Ford.  
“Sherlock are yo-“ “GO AWAY!” “I just want to-“ “Well stop wanting to do anything!” the door to Sherlock’s bedroom slammed shut, nearly taking Mycroft’s nose in the process. “I am trying to help Sherlock” “Well maybe you should help yourself to another plum pudding, by the looks of things you’ve already cleared off two!” 

Mycroft slammed the doorframe with his umbrella. It was much easier playing Iceman.  
Much easier to keep a distance.  
Much easier to pretend the world was full of goldfish.  
Much easier to coat his heart in a shield of ice. Or at least, try to.  
Mycroft hated winter.  
Ironic, the Iceman afraid of the cold.


End file.
